The Blessed Damned Part One
by TheHappiestAngel
Summary: The Blessed Damned- Part One
1. Chapter 1

**Word Count: 10, 427  
A.N. I've been wanting to work on this for a long time, but have never gotten around to it. This is only chapter 1 of part 1, and there will be 11 to 22 chapters per part. It's set in the Supernatural- verse, though is my own story line which will have very little to do with any characters from the show for a long time. Constructive criticism is very much appreciated, as well as any other comments. I will do my very best to reply to all of you, and solve any problems.  
Warnings: very mild spoilers, AU, OCs, mild swearing.**

The horizon stretched before her, harsh and red and unending. It was wild and unforgiving; it's jagged peaks reaching up to meet the solid blue sky. It was steady and constant under the wheels, an ever-present companion and reminder of life.

It was hers', she'd been born on it, grown up on it, and eventually grown into it.

The sharp ring of her phone cut through the air, sharpening the silence. The woman quickly checked the number before answering.

"Mum."

"Hey babe, where are you?"

"Uh, middle of nowhere, where are you?"

"Where I'm meant to be. Look, how long have you been driving?"

"About three hours, I just passed a gas station."

"Ok, it's coming up on your left."

"'Kay."

She tossed the shimmery black flip-phone onto the seat beside her, in the near vicinity of her bag. The heat outside distorted and shifted the road, and coupled with her fatigue from the previous night made separating the dirt road from the desert surrounding it a difficult task.

The motel came up fast; quickly growing from a small dot into the dry and cracked monstrosity that it was. The woman, scarcely 21, stepped out of the red Thunderbird Convertible stretching her long, denim-clad legs and tossing her red curls. Heels crunching the orangered soil underfoot she stepped lightly towards door 13, ignoring the tired snarls of the cattle dog guarding the office.

Unsurprisingly, the door was locked, so she knocked quick and sharp. The door swung open in response, the haggard yet bright face of her mother peering out from the darkness. Most of the furniture was pushed to the side; and in the middle of the room, tied up in a rotting chair, bleeding and laughing lightly, was a man.

Her right fist struck the other fighter in the stomach, then her knee. He pulled away, dazed, and in doing so gave her a clear shot at his nose. She took the opportunity and the blow connected, crushing the bone and cartilage. Swiping away her short black hair with a bloodied hand, she turned to leave, only to be struck hard in the back.

The impact knocked her to the ground, whereupon she swung around and kicked up with both feet, supporting herself with her back and arms. The man stumbled backwards but soon rushed forward again, angrier for being humiliated. The girl ducked left to avoid his clumsy, drunken swings, then stepped right. They only danced like this for about 30 seconds, at the end of which the muscled cage-fighter's languorous mood got the better of him, and he collapsed with a single well timed punch, naming the woman victorious. She collected her money as she stepped down from the cage, ignoring the mutters and groans.

The woman, whose names were many and diverse, headed straight to the bathroom. She headed into a cubicle, peed, simply from habit, and then went over to the sink. The face that stared back from the mirror was perpetually young and fresh, though in the eyes lay the knowledge of an old woman, perhaps a shaman or wise-woman. They were bristling with magic and treachery, love and too many miles.

Around them, the bruises and cuts left from the fighting knitted together and healed, leaving specks and smears of drying blood.

Turning the tap on cold, she splashed the brown water over herself, and quickly dried it off with her coat, which swept down to her knees, heavy and comforting. Not wanting to pay or be distracted by any games, she slipped quietly out the side door onto the open road and into the cool night.

The two were opposites, and yet they were the same. They didn't know it, but they were. The year was 2005, and far away, across the world, a fire had started in a Stanford dorm room, death toll one. But that's a story for much later. The beginning of the end was just starting to show, though it was known only to those few celestial beings who pulled the strings of the world, and danced the pieces of their game across the Earth and beyond, if need be.

It is now we shift our focus to one of these celestials.

His name was Simiel and he was an angel, high in the ranks, perfect, but not yet godly. The grace of thousands of his brothers and sisters hummed around him, shining brighter than their Father's sun. Around them all other light dimmed, with the obvious exception of his Father. Or so he'd been told.

Simiel flitted lightly through the fields and halls and archways of the angels' section of Heaven, climbing higher and higher, toward the throne of his eldest brothers. He had been called, presumably for a very important mission to be administered by Heaven's finest.

Upon reaching the throne room, he bowed on hands and knees, head down and wings folded in defeat. Their voices thrummed as one, echoing through his grace and sending a thrill of awe and terror to the tips of his wings. It was now, kneeling on the floor, wings brushing the metaphorical marble, he felt his first sweep of something akin to surprise. The orders were perplexing, yet who was he to question the Word?

"Don't kill him until you get something out of him, 'kay babe?" Her mother said from beside her.

"You think I would?" The woman replied, growing irritated.

The older lady sighed and stepped out of the room, as her daughter slowly began to move toward the man in the middle of the room.

She moved in a spiral, gradually coming in toward him. Her red hair flashing, and heels clicking softly against the wooden floor, she slid her short-sword from the dimension in which it was hidden into her hand, its golden blade shining like one terrible claw. Her eyes shone with the wariness and hunger of a tigress, stalking through the jungle, just feet away from her prey.

"Do you know who I am?" She drawled.

"Martinez," he spat, after a short pause.

"That's right," the woman bent and put her ruby lips close to his ear, "and so you know what comes next."

Her fingers curled under his chin, nails digging in, threatening to slice. She tilted his head up and stared into his, or its, eyes. They were shining and black as jet. The demon began to chuckle, harsh and manic. It abruptly cut off when he spat phlegm into the young woman's face. She paused, stood, and wiped it off with a wet face cloth from the table of instruments next to her.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't do that, and we can move on. Kapeesh?"

The demon didn't move.

"Good. Now. Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

She hit him across the head with the hilt of her sword, eliciting a grunt of pain. "You. Know."

It laughed again. "No one knows. You'll never find it. Ever. But you already knew that though, right hon?"

She stared into its eyes.

"So I was right." A cold feeling of dread swept through her, chilling her down to the very marrow. The thought alone would've sent the strongest men running to their mothers. But the trouble with the strongest men is that they never do.

She wanted to find them. It was in her nature; her soul. This want of companionship and battle was twined into her blood, flesh, hair and mind. It was branded into her soul and bones. It was primeval and it was right. The way she was meant to be. And so she obeyed it.

In a remote part of the woods in Canada, stood a lonely truck stop and pub. The names don't matter. What does matter is the lone figure trudging away from the dim lights of the motel, coat flapping in the building blizzard. She loved snow. It was clean and cool and sweet. Each flake was unique, and crystalline, and fragile. Snow belonged to the Wild. It was indifferent to the goings on below. To whether its appearance and disappearance affected the billions of sparkling human souls stuck on Earth. It suited her just fine.

However, her coat and shoes were newly washed, and she was tired. Sleep was, unfortunately, the one form of sustenance she required, and it would not wait for a comfortable motel room or even a truck bed. She walked a while longer, then stopped and stuck out her thumb at a pair of oncoming headlights. To her surprise, they dimmed and a large, blocky truck pulled over to the side of the road.

The young woman jogged quickly over to the passenger door and stepped inside, brushing empty chip packets and Mountain Dew cans off of the seat in the process. She didn't look over to see who had picked her up until she had shut the rusty door against the cold wind and flurrying snow.

The driver was a middle aged woman, probably about 45 though the years of carting goods in the harsh weather of Canada and North America had stripped her face of beauty and wrinkled her browned skin. Her deep brown eyes were kindly though, and looked as though they had lived a full life. She could see beauty in them, cold nights spent huddling on the couch with her children, and their children. She saw happiness and fulfilment and wished it was hers.

"What are you doing out here, pumpkin?" the woman asked.

As much as she resented being called 'pumpkin', she kept her cool and responded politely. The lady deserved it.

"Just looking for someone."

"Oh, a man?"

"No. I don't know. A woman, I suppose."

"Oh, I see. Well, I'm afraid you won't find another woman's comfort anywhere near here, if that's what you want."

She couldn't be bothered correcting her mistake, so she just went along with it. She wouldn't have minded if she found someone willing anyway. Or something. So she remained silent while the older woman pulled out onto the road.

Eventually she broke the silence.

"What's your name?"

The truckie looked over, slightly surprised. "Marly. 'Name's Marly, pumpkin. What about you? What'd your folks pin ya with?"

"Laura." She'd always liked the name, despite it being a lie. Marly clearly saw through her charade, but didn't press.

"That's a damn pretty name, that is. One of my granddaughters's called Laura."

The girl whose name was currently Laura nodded. "Where're you headed?"

"South, to Bismarck. You?"

"Just South. Always South. Mind if I tag along?"

"Not at all, not at all! I'd be glad for the company. Gets lonely out here. Gone a bit crazy over the years I'm afraid."

She got the feeling Marly kinda had. "Thanks. Much appreciated."

"Naw, that's okay. I used to have a friend whose daughter tried hitchhiking out here; never seen again. Tragic."

Marly continued with her stories much of the trip, and Laura let her. They'd been driving for an hour, and had stopped at a service station in Regina because Marly "had to feed the toilet." As soon as she was out of sight, she scoped out the area. There were plenty of cars Marly could hitch a ride in and phones inside the store.

She only felt slightly guilty about stealing the truck.

Simiel was happy. He had orders and a task and therefore purpose. He had to find a woman. A very precious woman. One of Heaven's greatest weapons. There were roughly 6 billion humans in the world, and that was only the registered ones. He knew that there was a possibility that the weapon had become lost and turned down a dangerous path, though he would save those thoughts for later.

First he would start with the biggest cities. Then, within this category, the most faithful to Him. He appeared, white leather coat flapping around his ankles, in the centre of Vatican square. The humans who rushed about him did not notice his sudden appearance, but merely swept by, busy and uninterested. He had been told he would know her on sight. Half of the world was female, and if he had to, he would check every one. Simiel stared intently at the passing women, most of which gave him strange or scared looks. He travelled around Vatican City, then spiralled out into Rome, and had inspected the whole female population within 2.45 minutes.

The weapon was not in Rome.

She ran past her mother and into her car, swearing at the engine's protests. Ignoring her mum's cries, she sped off North-East, across the desert. Her heart was racing and her breath was short. Her mother would just have to deal with the body herself. The speedometer was reaching far past 100, but she was no mood to slow down.

No, instead she simply wanted to _go_. Fast. Far. Now. The blue sky that stretched in a dome around her was deepening to a rich, light purple-blue. The sunset was beautiful, shot through with pinks and oranges, light bouncing off of the few clouds that drifted through the air, and poised in the centre was the Sun, descending gracefully into the red horizon.

On any other occasion, she would have stopped to admire it, to let it wash over her auburn hair and bask in its glow. But not now. No. All Hell was loose, could've been for months now. And it was human. Essentially. It was like her. But not like her at all.

This physical darkening of the land was only the beginning, she thought to herself.

She turned the music up to distract herself, but before she could let it sink in, her phone rang loud and clear. There was a good chance it was her mother, so she ignored it. There was no way she could deal with that right now. The lady would just have to wait.

After the ring had died down to silence, though, it rang again. Shrill and demanding. She doubted her mum would try to ring twice in such quick succession, so she picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Hey there."

"Oh, look, Ail, I really don't have time to talk right now."

"Mum called, and said you just ran off and left her to deal with some poor bloke's body."

"Well, I have bigger things to think about. Really, I do. And I don't want you in the middle of it."

"Sum-"

The young woman threw the phone down angrily on the seat next to her, the impact of which snapped it shut, ending the call. Flicking on her headlights, she focused on the road ahead. Cunnamulla should only be about an hour's drive away and there she could hole up and decide what her next move would be. She needed strategy. Ideas. She needed help.

Sighing, she picked up the phone, and hit redial.

The weather was dismal upon her arrival in Bismarck. The sleet had not yet given way to snow, and it was piling up in grey heaps on footpaths and in gutters. She ditched Marly's truck in an alley of a North Bismarck street, and trudged out on the road. She was a woman with a plan and a mission, and this made her dangerous.

After waiting for about ten minutes with her thumb stuck out, she eventually gave up and went over to the cars lining the streets, trying the doors to see if they were unlocked. She got lucky on the third try. A silver Honda Accord. Not her kind of car, but it would do. It was however, keyless, so she lay down in the back of the car, hidden in the darkness, gun ready and in hand.

She waited like this for about 5 minutes, whereupon a young man in his early to mid 20s got in the front seat and started the car.

Sitting up, she put the gun to his head and told him, in a calm steady voice, to drive. He tensed, then proceeded to cry.

"I said drive, lady!" She hated repeating herself. "My temper's wearing thin here sweetie, so you better get a move on."

"Ok, ok," the terrified man whispered. She looked at his face in the mirror and from the side. He wasn't much to look at at all. He had an unfortunately long face, and thick rimmed glasses. His hair was a drab grey-blonde, and combed to the side and gelled to absolute perfection. A few swatches of acne clung to his cheeks, forehead and around his grey eyes.

"Okay," she said, her voice loud and clear and dripping with authority, "What's your name?"

"Olly." He managed to force out.

"Ok, Olly, how much gas do you have?"

"A full tank."

"Ok, good, I'm gonna just take your word for that. Do you know where Pierre is, Olly?"

"Uh, South Dakota."

"Good, then drive to the airport in Pierre, and neither of us will ever speak of this again. Especially not the Police, hey, Olly?" She enforced this last part by tapping her gun on his skull.

"Yes, yes, of course." His breathing was shallow and trembling, and he was still lightly sobbing.

If he knew who she was he would have been screaming.

She sat surrounded by books on the springy blue motel bed, eyes glued to the screen in front of her. The sound of wheels on gravel alerted her to the arrival of a car outside the door, though she paid it little attention. It wasn't until a shaft of sunlight pierced the room from the open door that she even glanced up.

"How'd you get in? It's locked."

"Not anymore," replied her sister, "Manager gave me a spare key."

"Hm."

"Jesus, what's wrong with you? It's like a dungeon in here." The other woman crossed over to the windows and swept open the curtains, and was rewarded with a complaining whine from her sister.

"Summer" she stated.

"Ailish" was the reply.

"So what's so bad so you can't even call on your own family for help?" Of course Ailish wasn't strictly a Martinez by blood, she had been taken in by the woman of the household when she only seven, after a train crash had killed her mother. Her father was unreachable, and so she was given into the care of the Martinez household. Therefore she was about 5 months older than Summer, but they were sisters nonetheless.

"They've done it. The demons have done it. They've created their own me."

"Shit" was the reply, after a short pause.

"You see? This is it. We have to find them, whoever they are."

"They might not even know what they are yet."

"That doesn't change much."

The two women exchanged worried looks. Summer tossed a ringlet of red from her face, and turned her attention back to the computer.

"Look, I haven't found much, but I did come to the conclusion that they would probably be as far away as possible to me if the angels could help it, so I started checking for crimes or omens in Canada and North America, and got a string of them leading from Alaska all the way down to Bismarck. The worst crimes are just car thefts or robberies, but the whole trail is laden with demonic omens."

"You think they've teamed up with demons?"

"I think maybe they've got demons on their tail."

"So what now, then?"

"Well, they're heading South, just South, and I can't seem to stop myself travelling North, so what if they're looking for me as well?"

"True, true. So if they're coming for you, why not let them? Load yourself up with as many weapons as you can and wait. Give a few clues."

Summer Martinez buried her face in her hands, and ran the long locks through her fingers.

"Yeah, alright."

"I know that you hate waiting Sum, but-"

"I said fine." She snapped, turning away.

They'd been driving for about half an hour and Olly had calmed down enough to try and spark up a conversation. An interesting goal seeing as the person with whom he wished to speak had a loaded and cocked gun resting on his temple.

"So. What's your name? I won't tell a soul I swear." Olly began.

The woman looked over at him, and then climbed into the passenger seat, keeping her eyes and gun trained on him at all times. She thought for a second.

"Danika. Danika Moore."

"Nice name. So, why're you heading to Pierre?"

"Looking for someone. I think."

Olly glanced over in confusion. "You…think? Well come on you must know."

Danika tapped her gun in his head.

"Right yeah, of course." The tremble had crept back into his voice. "So, who are looking for? It's ok you can tell me anything."

It was all quite thoroughly puzzling to her. Generally people didn't try and exchange pleasantries with their kidnapper. Humans never ceased to amaze her.

"Anything?"

"Um, yeah sure."

She thought for a minute. This man did not deserve what she was about to do. He was young and mouldable and naïve. But she was lonely. And lost. And though she would never admit it to herself or anyone else, she was even scared.

"Do you believe in God, Olly?" She asked, soft, gentle.

The thinning street lights flitted across their faces, interspersed and sharpened by headlights, each of which represented a life, skimming by, unknowing, innocent.

"I don't know. I'd like to, I suppose. My mom was very religious, but I was never fully convinced that He was up there." He said, quieter now. He was vulnerable, and he surely knew it.

"How about ghosts? And werewolves?"

He looked over to her. He was panicking, trying to run in his mind, but only managing to flail and cower as his curiosity got the better of him.

"I don't know." His voice was a whisper now. "Why are you asking me these questions?"

She looked down. "I lied. My name's not Danika Moore. It's Monica. Monica Hunter." Hey eyes shot up to meet his, though instead of the sky blue colour they had previously been, they were burning, red and orange and yellow, like flames. They were evil and unforgiving, loving and endless, beauty and life and death.

"Oh my God." His voice trembled in a barely audible whisper.

"Think again."

Ailish stared at her sister. Her nail polish was scratched and chipped, and her usual sweet, fresh scent had faded into worried sweat and desert dust.

"I'm going for a walk," Summer announced, getting up and heading out the door.

"Where?" Ailish began, but she was gone before she could finish. Summer walked out of the chipped door of the Cunnamulla Hotel, heels clacking on the pavement. She didn't pay attention to where she was going, or the darkening sky above. Crowds of people still clustered at various intervals; the school, the pub, the hotel and so forth.

People stared, as they often did when a new girl passed through, or a new man for that matter. Fresh fun was hard to come by. She hardly spared them a glance though, as she continued her lost wander towards the town centre.

This person is running, she thought. Like I'm running from heaven, perhaps she's running from hell. Maybe she doesn't want to be what she is. Maybe she's like me after all. Crimes had been committed by her and in her name countless times, they were just well covered up. She had a lifetime of running and experience that she doubted this person had. Perhaps they didn't mind. Didn't care whether they lived or died, just that they didn't die at the hands of their pursuers. After all, isn't that what anyone would want? To die free, under the stars of your homeland?

It was all Summer had ever asked for. This is why she ran from herself. From Heaven; from who she was meant to be. The embodiment of Heaven, the greatest weapon ever to have come from the Father, with the exception of angels. It came in the form of a small babe, brought into this world by the name of Summer Jasmine Martinez, into a rich family of dealers and mercenaries. The weapon was beautiful, cunning and strong. But best of all; it felt. It thought for itself and had free will. It had imagination and an identity. It, _she, _blended in. And she was hidden. So hidden, in fact, it had taken 21 years for the angels to even discover it was human. Or almost. She wasn't hindered by any of the typical human needs such as eating and breathing. She merely needed dreaming, and could only be killed by her own hand.

But the demons had worked it out first, for they were everywhere. And so they reported back to Hell and from the depths of the fiery pit was born another. To match.

Summer came to rest on a large bronze statue; The Cunnamulla Fella as proclaimed by a shiny brass plate. She stared at the Fella's weary face and relaxed position. He seemed happy enough, watching his town grow and live.

She wondered. She worried. From the shadows of an alley near the pub, watched a woman. She looked no older than 25, with a sultry air. A single, thin scar ran down the length of her left arm, and as she grinned, two rows of sharp fangs glinted in the flickering street lights.

Olly's breathing was quite audible now, and sweat dripped down his face and neck despite the cold weather. He looked around for a house or even a light, but there was none. They were well and truly in the middle of nowhere now.

Shakily, he asked, "What are you?"

"I'm hell."

He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief second, in a subconscious attempt to make her disappear, if only for second.

"What do you want? What are you doing here? Is it The End?"

"I told you, I'm looking for someone. A woman. And I don't know why I'm here. I have a few clues, but I don't know. And yes. Or the beginning at least. But don't worry, please. I don't want to hurt you."

"You're going to kill me."

She looked ahead at the road, her eyes fading from fiery red to violet to blue. "If I wanted you dead I would have done it by now. Stop crying. Calm down. Breathe."

He did. Slower and slower until it was steady.

Then he swerved, off the road and into the neighbouring cabbage field. The car spun and came to a rest in the depths of a rogue blackberry patch. Sweating and flailing, he fumbled for a latch and tumbled out of the door onto the damp ground. The mud concealed rocks and twigs, which scraped against his face and hands as he scrambled madly away from the car and towards the road. The flurries had given way to clear sky, and the landscape was clear, bathed in moonlight. Night birds sang and cows slept on in the surrounding paddocks.

The world went on, as he ran terrified through fresh green cabbages, about to be ran down and killed by the most horrible of Hell-spawn. He heard her heavy combat boots crunching the vegetables as she came towards him, at a steady and calm pace. Monica reached into the recesses of her coat, and pulled out a pair rocks tied together with a string.

It wasn't hard to hit the man, for he was thrashing and stumbling blindly toward the road, occasionally falling face first into the boggy ground. The homemade weapon hit him hard on the ankles, forcing him to fall, whilst tangling itself around his feet. Olly rolled over to see Monica standing over him, eyes once again a fiery red, seemingly glowing in the ghostly moonlight.

"What exactly do you mean by you're Hell?"

Instead of answering, she reached down and pulled him to his feet. After a quick half-jog towards the car, Olly was unceremoniously bundled into the driver's seat; his feet now free. Her gun came again to rest on his skull. The message was clear enough.

"I'm a weapon created in Hell. Lucifer poured all his malice and cunning and beauty and strength into me. I was going to be ordinary. They chose my mother when she was only three months pregnant. I never even had a choice. But now, I'm just a tool." She explained bitterly.

Olly was quiet. He was confused. He didn't know what to think. He wanted to put this all down to a dream, a very bad mixed up dream, but the gun against his skull was cold and heavy, and the air of the woman was too potent.

It was impossibly, terrifyingly _real. _

"Why?"

"Because. They were scared. Heaven had created a weapon about 4 months before, and so they retaliated. They rushed to forge a power equal to it, but I think that they must've gotten a few things wrong cos I mean, look at me. But anyway. They heard whispers that Heaven's weapon was human, or like one, so they stuck the power in a three month old fetus in the womb of a woodchopper's wife. Me."

She lowered her gun. "Please. Don't run. Don't try."

"Ok."

There was a pause. Then, Olly spoke once more.

"This woman you're looking for. You think she's Heaven's weapon?"

"Yeah."

"So, why do you think she's in the South?"

"Because we're opposites. I'm from the far north, so it stands to reason she's from the far South."

Olly thought for a second. "Can I come?"

Monica's head snapped up in surprise. "You want to come with me? Why?"

"I'm an accountant," the young man explained, "the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me was when my dog nearly got run over when I was 7. I'll never forgive myself if I miss this chance."

"Yeah, whatever. Let's just get to Pierre."

"Yeah, yeah, great. Great-ee-o."

She stared out her window at the snow- draped landscape and sighed, heavy and dry.

She tried the handle to her room, and found it unlocked. Ailish must still be awake. The night was warm around her, comforting and steady. Pushing open the door, she walked straight to her bed, tearing off her shoes and jacket on the way.

"Summer."

She ignored it, climbing under the covers, still fully clothed. She did not want to talk.

"We need to talk."

Her sister came over and sat down on her bed with her. "You know I hate talking this stuff out just as much as you do, but we really do need to talk about it. I know you better than you might think Sum. You'll keep it inside and it will build up and up until it just explodes out of you and it will be highly unpleasant for everyone involved."

Summer responded by pulling the doona further over her head. "I just need to sleep. We can talk in the morning."

The other girl sighed. "Fine." A few minutes later the lights went off and Summer was drifting into a restless sleep.

That night she dreamt, as always, but this time it was different. There were no monsters, no family, no bright colours or angels. It was just her.

She was wandering through the desert. She had to find something. No, someone. In her conscious mind she knew, but this was a dream. The answer was right in the corner of her mind, on the tip of her tongue. She looked skyward. Circling in the cyan sky was a Wedge-Tailed Eagle. The moment she spotted it, it swerved off North, then spiralled down and back to her.

She started to run, but the flat horizon never seemed to move. She must've run for about 3 hours, and when she glanced back at the bird, the land was dark and the bird was merely feet away from her.

Summer screamed, loud and piercing, and the bird vanished in a column of black smoke. As she turned to see where it had gone, blue light started to trickle in from the mountains, like water, soft and ethereal. While she watched, pine trees sprung up from the red dirt, resting on snow-capped cliffs. The Aurora Borealis shimmered overhead, throwing shadows onto the ground below. Wolves and eagles and bears danced in the sky, bounding off of stars and beams.

The lights reflected in her eyes, then became her eyes. She was everything. The multi-verse and all that had and that will and that is coming to be. She saw, no _felt_, a woman. Or at least it was feminine. Summer leaned into Her presence. It swarmed and caressed, building and building, whispering comforts. It was colour and it was invisible. She closed her eyes, and let the presence lead her. Pinks and greens and purples and oranges and reds and blues massed together then drifted apart. She became aware of a loud thrumming, like she was in some sort of womb. She flew, and floated. She asked the being; "Are you God?" and the air was filled with screaming, and she felt blasphemous and terrified. No. Not God. _Older._

Her eyes flew open at the suggested words, to see the rotted wall of the Cunnamulla hotel. The screaming had morphed into the raucous drunken laughter emanating from the pub next door, and the heart-beat churned down the train tracks out of ear shot.

Bright light was shining through the cracks in the hotel curtains. Summer rolled over and off the edge of the bed, rushing over to Ailish's sleeping form.

"Get up!" she yelled, "Get up, we have to go! Brisbane, now!"

Ailish murmured a sleepy protest, but yielded and sat up. Summer was already across the room and stuffing books and clothes into her suitcase. "Come on, come on! No, don't worry about shoes right now you can put them on in the car! Let's go!"

"What's the rush?"

"They have to be close, or getting close, and we need to be in Brisbane to meet them."

"Who? The other weapon?"

"Yes! And a man."

"A man?"

"Car! Now!"

They pulled into Pierre airport a few hours later, and while Olly went to the restroom, Monica bought two one-way tickets to Cairns, Australia. Olly didn't know how she knew she was in Australia, and he didn't ask. Monica, he'd discovered, had an incredibly short temper when it came to asking questions. If she knew it, or it seemed obvious to her, it was a stupid question, and she could not abide stupid questions.

They were seated on the plane 20 minutes later, Monica on the aisle seat, and Olly to her left. Sandwiched into the window seat was a slightly overweight, middle-aged African American woman, who, seemingly quite conscious of her build, remained silent in her seat the duration of the flight.

Olly glanced over at the younger woman several times. She was looking straight ahead, as she had on the ride down. He never seemed to be able to catch her blinking either, strange as it was. As they grew ever closer to their destination, she grew more and more agitated. She tapped her fingers along the edge of the armrest, and fidgeted with her hair. As soon as the plane touched down on the tarmac, she was leaning out of her seat, and he could only begin to think about what was going through her mind.

Monica could feel her, a warm buzz of energy and wrath. She was still a long way away, and it annoyed her horribly that she seemed to move just on the edge of her detection, unreachable and unknowable.

"What do you think she'll be like?" Olly's head snapped over to look at her, surprised by the sudden outburst.

"Well," He began, "intelligent, for a start. If she's so hard to find she mustn't just be an ordinary civilian."

Monica nodded thoughtfully in response, already distracted by the world outside the airplane windows. She wondered if this was her now. If this was her life. Travelling and running. Running and hiding, then starting the whole cycle over again. She'd never known anything except the secluded woodland of Alaska and her miserable, 30 student school before she'd turned 18. All of a sudden her parents were lying gutted on the floor and she was tearing down the west coast of Canada.

The sudden movement of passengers jolted her from her reverie, forcing her down the aisle, down the hall and into the airport. Things were already noticeably different. The air conditioners were on cool, and instead of snow-capped mountains, the massive windows of the airport showed patchy sky and waving palm trees. She felt humid just looking at it.

Turning, she saw Olly, squinting hard at the map. It was clearly meant to illuminate, but the bulb had long since broken and the squiggly lines all seemed to blur into one another. Watching him struggle and harrumph over it was agitating her, so she stomped past, grabbing his arm along the way.

"Do you know which way we're going?" He asked.

"No, but how hard can finding the entrance be? Really?"

"But you have to go through all the checks and procedures and everything."

She sighed and turned to look at him, tilting her head and folding her arms in the process. He began to protest, but her eyes flashed red and he could have sworn she hissed, low in her throat, so he let her lead him away, out of a side door.

The first thing he was aware of as the door opened onto a small staff car park, was the stifling humidity. It hit him in a thick wave, and he could instantly tell Monica was struck by it as well due to her expression of general disgust at the outside world. They slipped quietly down the building towards the main car park and the highway. At the edge of the tarmac Monica stopped, inspecting the hundreds of cars lined up neatly. She walked, no, strolled, nonchalantly up to the nearest car and tried the handle. It did not yield.

Monica scanned the array of vehicles, her eyes drawn to ones that looked as though they had never seen a city before today. She trotted naturally up to a rusty white Ute, and successfully pulled open the door. Waving Olly over, she slipped into the driver's side. The key was conveniently placed under a tear in the dirtied carpeting. Small mercies.

"What's going on, Summer?" Ailish asked flatly. They had torn out of town, Summer's Thunderbird's engine screaming in protest, and were now heading in a straight line for Brisbane.

"Do you believe in that thing? Dream-visions or whatever." Summer queried. Her voice was manic and tight with anticipation.

"What? Well. Yes, I suppose. I mean, it isn't common; it's reserved for angelic messages and psychics, right?"

"Right. Right. I had this really weird dream, and there was this, I dunno. I guess I just got a kind of feeling when I woke up. So weird. But it makes sense right? Go to the biggest tropical capital city in Australia?"

"It's not the biggest."

"Oh, who cares?"

"I know, I know. Alright, then. It's as good a lead as any."

"Yep." Summer was bouncing in her seat, causing her red curls to jump.

Neither felt like talking, so Ailish turned on the CD player, and Vienna Teng sang clear from the speakers. She watched the landscape skimming by while Summer watched the road, though God knows what she was really seeing. Toward late afternoon, when they'd been driving about 4 hours, the landscape really hadn't changed an awful lot. There were a few more gum trees and scrubby fields, though the basics remained the same. Same road, same crappy fill-up joints, same temperature. The rising sun beat down on them, and she was sweating even though the air-con was turned up full blast.

Summer, of course, didn't sweat, and despite feeling the heat, it didn't seem to sway her one iota. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel along to Queen, happy to have a mission. Ailish's face was turned towards the window, and for a second she could have sworn she saw someone. A woman, dark haired and red lipped. It wasn't much, and most would put it down to a mirage. But Ailish had instincts beyond most humans.

"Did you see that?"

"See what?"

"A woman. She was just standing there, under a tree. She looked pretty lost."

The younger woman visibly deflated. "Do you think she was real?"

"Looked pretty solid, yeah."

She sighed, "And I was having such a good day."

Monica stared unblinking at the laptop screen, fingers occasionally tapping the keyboard. She clearly wasn't very practiced with technology of any kind, and her expression mirrored her frustration. Her small noises of frustration finally ceased, then turned to those of triumph.

"What have you found?"

"Hnn? Oh, I beat the Genie."

He very nearly face-wheeled, if there was such thing. "Have you found anything about this girl though? Do we know where to look? I mean, Australia's big, we have to narrow it down."

"I've been trying to track omens and credit cards but any I find are seemingly completely random. I think she's been covering her tracks for a long time."

"Ok."

She looked over at him wearily. "You really don't say much, do you?"

He blushed. She frowned. "Um, well, you know." He stuttered.

Monica sighed heavily, responding with a weighted "Whatever."

He had never been good at talking. Or socialising with anyone, in any way, for that matter. And every time he tried to speak with a member of the opposite sex he stuttered, and embarrassed himself. It wasn't a sexual thing. It's just that he didn't understand how they worked, and what they wanted to talk about.

"What kind of omens are you looking for?" He wondered aloud. Omens.

"Demonic ones."

"Demonic?"

"Demonic."

"Mm." Olly squeaked. He didn't want to think about what would leave Demonic omens in its' wake.

"Have you tried the opposite?"

Monica paused. She turned her head toward him slowly, questioningly.

"Well. You said it yourself. There's a heaven, so it stands to reason, there's angels." He hesitated. "Right?"

"Right." Her voice was husky, quiet.

"I'm sorry, I didn't upset you did I?" Again. This always happened.

"No, no. I'm just thinking."

"Oh."

Neither said anything for a while, then the soft click on Monica's laptop started up again, with growing intensity.

"Oh my god." She seemed wary, yet excited. He glanced over, eager for any news that would make the 16 and a half hours left in the drive less tedious or more purposeful.

"Like, literally?"

She actually let out a short, sweet laugh. The contrast to her looks and usually sombre demeanour made it all the sweeter. "No, but close. There have been a number of weird things happen around the globe in the past 48 hours, but they seem to be concentrating in Australia as of late. Mostly around the East Coast."

She looked up at him, smiling.

"Oh, well don't look at me, I'm clueless."

"Angels, Olly. _Angels._"

"Seriously? What do you think they're doing? Is this normal for angels?"

"No, they haven't done anything for thousands of years. And it has to only be one. There haven't been that many omens."

"So what is it doing? If there's only one?"

She started to shake her head in defeat, but stopped in the act. "It's looking for her. It's looking for the weapon."

A pause. "Shit. That's bad right? For you?"

She didn't say anything, and suddenly seemed very interested in the road. For a second he thought that she had started typing again, but the clicking was too quick, too light. He looked over at her hands, which were still resting on the keys. She was trembling, causing them to rattle.

"Monica? Monica?"

His voice was dim in her ears, drowned out by the panicked pulse of her heart. If the angels got to this girl, chances are they'd do whatever they had to too make her work as the weapon she is. They'd break her and use her to destroy demons, and eventually, vitally, Monica.

Olly's hand clamped down on her shoulder, suddenly, causing her to jump and whip around.

"Monica," he was saying, the laptop in his hands. "This is good. He's circling south-east QLD, spiralling in towards Brisbane. We can get there first. If we hurry. We get to Townsville and get another plane from there to Brisbane, then we'll work out our next move, ok?"

Her mind was clouded and Olly's words caught in her ears, so she nodded.

"I don't wanna die." Her voice was a husky whisper.

Olly didn't say anything. What could he say? He had no idea who she was, if she could be killed, who the other weapon was or even what he was doing. He was lost and quite frankly didn't think this was going to end with them both still kicking. So he kept quiet and listened to her shaky breathing.

"So what do you think? Vampire, Bunyip? Hooker?"

Ailish gave her a tired look, then conceded to not knowing. "Possibly a vampire. She had that look."

"What, the dead look? I hear that's very distinctive." Summer shot back.

"Ha-ha." Ailish replied drily, "I guess. She looked pretty pissed off about everything in general. You know, woe is my un-life."

"Hmm. Can you describe her?"

"Uh, dark hair, looked like she put it in rollers, kinda long. Pale, very pretty, emo dress."

Summer's face contorted to one of concentration, then unfolded into one of frustration and the slightest hint of fear.

"I think I may have killed her boyfriend."

"You're joking. Seriously? You let her get away?"

"I'd only just finished killing her boyfriend, then I turned around and she was running away. I chased her, but she was gone. God, and she was impossible to find too."

"Je-sus." The word was dragged out into two parts, prolonging the irritation. "So, what, we just let her follow us?"

"Uh. No?"

"Freaking Hell."

"Look. We're about 6 hours out of Brisbane, and it's 3 pm now. That means we arrive and get to a motel around 9:30. You get some rest, and I'll get us there, then you can keep watch. If she wants us, she'll find us, whether it be before we reach Brisbane or after."

"Alright." She sighed.

"Ok."

Summer glanced over to her sister, whose form was motionless, already drifting into the smooth caress of sleep, the last few days catching up with her. She wondered how long they'd be travelling like this. She joined up with various members of her family from time to time, though tended to lean toward her female relatives. None of the men in her family were in her line of business, despite some being hunters. They were either too far one side or another. Not in the middle.

Apart from Ailish and her mother, of course. Her mother. She should call her; let her know she was ok.

But she knew she never would.

Her head rested against the stained window, occasionally bumping on the plastic door. She was close to sleep, but the city lights were growing brighter and more frequent outside. Monica was still utterly exhausted however; she hadn't rested in far too long. She'd only caught a couple of hours on the flight over here, not enough to dream.

She was vaguely aware of the car coming to halt and Olly's hand on her shoulder.

"Monica," he whispered. Louder, "Monica. We have to go. We're at the airport. You can get some sleep on the plane, hey?"

"Mhm." She rubbed the forming sleep from her eyes and nearly fell out of the car. The lights were blinding, however, and soon her mind was clear and her senses sharp.

"You right now?"

"Yeah, I'm fine thanks." She started towards the side of the building, moving stealthily toward an emergency exit door. They came out in a hallway leading onto a booking desk, crowded with people. Unnoticed, the duo drifted into the nearest line. The wait wasn't particularly bad, which was fortunate owing to the tiredness of both travellers, and the hunger of Olly.

"Two one-way tickets to Brisbane, please." Monica asked, sweet and fake.

"Ok, that'll be $109 each, thank you. Ok, Savings?"

"Yeah."

With a final too bright smile, the lady behind the desk handed Monica two tickets, warm and crisp. As soon as they were away from the crowd and sitting in a seat, the tickets were given to Olly, who studied them carefully.

"Ok, so-" He began, only to cut short by Monica.

"I don't want the details. Go do something then come and get me when we have to go."

"Alrighty then, I'll just be," he followed this with a gesture towards the food court.

"Yep." She'd forgotten people needed to eat. Crap. She watched him walk away, bored and scared and excited. She was a mere few hours away now, she could feel it. She wanted the other girl to like her. But she didn't want her to be like her, if that made any sense. If she had to kill her, then she wanted it to be easy. It never was, though.

He returned in about 15 minutes, smelling of bad salad and muttering something about door 13. She rose and followed obediently, through the busy airport and onto the plane. It was almost impossible to get on; her blood was pumping so vehemently. It wasn't her fear doing it though. Or her heart, even. It was something else, and it was the strangest sensation she'd ever felt. Her breathing and heart beat stayed normal, but her blood was hot and churning, though she didn't feel sick at all. Quite the opposite. She felt all Hell flowing through her, pulling away and toward the weapon. It felt so right, and so good. Better than sex, even better than chocolate cake.

He stood, staring at the stars above him. They were the only real light around, apart from the flickering, lone streetlight and the dim glow of the pub. She'd been here, near the statue, only hours before. They were so incredibly close it was unbearable. She was just so _close_.

Simiel's wings were aching from days of flying, with little to no rest. Yet, he couldn't, and wouldn't stop until he found the weapon. Her scent still lingered; representing the pinnacle of Heaven's beauty. It was fresh and floral and tropical. Not exactly what he had expected, but pleasant nonetheless. He simply wanted to make sure she wasn't in danger, and that was becoming increasingly difficult. There were traces of silver and iron and salt in the room she and another woman had occupied, which led him to suspect her as a hunter, or something like one.

One thing was for sure, however, and that was the fact that she had moved on from the small township of Cunnamulla, and had come in contact with only one other human here; the motel clerk, presumably to check in. There was nothing for him here, and so he pushed on.

Her name was Frieda. Her blood had ceased to flow in 1983, at a bar, where the most handsome man she'd seen in a long while had invited back to his for a 'coffee'. Stupidly she'd gone, and had succumbed to a life spent in darkness around 2 am. He'd tuck tailed and ran soon afterwards, leaving her bitter and alone.

Five years after being turned she met another vampire; a man. They'd fallen for each other, travelled, loved, and then he'd died. Head lopped off in a back alley, and his blood stolen and sold for a few hundred dollars, none of which passed her hand. Her hatred for human-kind had already been near-uncontrollable, and now her thirst for blood was insatiable. Particularly for that of his murderer.

She swept swiftly through the shadows at the side of road, just outside the woman's headlights. She was once again the thing in the dark, the thing lurking on the edge of perception. The longer she watched and waited, the worse became her anger. The time was close; the lights of Toowoomba glittered in the distance, presumably her victim's resting place. If not, it wasn't far after that to Brisbane.

Whenever fatigue threatened to slow her, she envisioned the red-haired girl lying sucked dry on the ground, her blood dripping from her lips. As the night grew darker, it became closer to reality, as she grew further away from her 'morals'.

Drawing up close to the car, she leapt onto the roof, relishing in the startled yells from below. Her black dress billowed out behind her, exposing the porcelain skin of her shins. Frieda slid her knife out of its scabbard, and slashed at the roof metal. All of sudden the roof began to move backwards, folding up. As she stepped forward to move with it, a silver knife shot out in front of her, slashing at her legs.

Kicking at the knife, her footing was lost, and she tumbled down onto the road, snarling. Though in her anger and humiliation, she continued to run after the disappearing car.

"Shit!" Ailish was yelling, holding her bleeding hand. Summer's face was white and her hair was slightly frazzled. She reached out with a trembling finger, closing the roof. The extent of damage to the car was a small slice in the material of the roofing, while Ailish's hand was gushing blood.

They must have been going 80 when they reached Toowoomba, and went as fast as they could from there, taking as many shortcuts and back alleys as possible. Steering with one hand, Summer reached into the backseat and pulled up the first-aid box.

"Here, can you stitch it up yourself?"

"I don't think it needs stitches, but yeah I can bandage it." She sounded breathless, undoubtedly more from the fright than the pain.

"Oh my god the crazy bitch." Summer sounded equally breathless, and only slightly less shaky.

"How long until we're in Brisbane?" Her sister asked, in the middle of wrapping gauze around her hand.

"Uhm, about an hour and a half. Maybe a little less. Shh, shh, it's alright. Breathe. She's way back by now." She sounded far more reassured than she felt, and Ailish clearly wasn't buying it.

"Right. Speed up. There are no cops out here."

She pushed her speedometer up to 120, without hesitation. At this rate they'd only save about 30 minutes, but it was worth simply to put a few more km between them and that psycho vampire.

The radio was crackling and unusable so they listened to Enya. It was slow and calm, so unlike their life. She couldn't stop glancing at the edge of the headlights, wondering at and fearing what lurked behind the line of black. Every second they ran the risk of begin attacked again. The night was dark, darker than most. The stars were few, as if the majority of them had just given up for the night-time. Suddenly, as if crossing a line, her body shifted. Not just her body but her mind. Her blood boiled and her mind cleared, clearer than it had ever been. Her heart and breath remained still and steady, in time with the constant tarmac beneath the wheels, but her blood and mind changed and shifted with the landscape. It was beautiful, and _Heavenly. _Summer Jasmine Martinez could feel the other weapon, close and growing closer.

She sped up, faster than the wind could bear. It whistled and screamed past her windows as the lights of the city grew ever closer.

The plane ride over was tantalizingly slow, and the nonchalance of the other humans on board was torture. They were stupid, completely ignorant of the delicate balance of their lives.

They had been in the air for about an hour and a quarter. The Fates seemed to be tormenting her, placing the object of her concern so close, dangling it and taunting with harsh cries of dolor.

"It won't be long now Monica," Olly was saying, "About 35 minutes."

Her hands were clasped tight in her lap, and her blue eyes were impossibly wide. He felt pretty bad for her, and he wanted to make her feel better, he did. But he didn't know what to do. Instead he looked out his window, at the clear night. The clouds were below them, and it seemed as if the stars were almost touchable. The moon was impossibly big, and hung silken and empyrean in the black sky.

It was beautiful and quiescent, and the irony of its' peace was not lost on him. As they ran, searching and terrified, it looked over them, authoritative and indifferent. If his world ended tonight, no tears would be lost, not by the world, not by the angels, not by Monica.

All of a sudden, the picturesque view of the sky dropped away to cloud, then gave way to a breathtaking view of the city lights. Olly looked over to Monica, to see how she was doing. She was staring out of the window too, though her face was flushed with excitement and terror, whereas his was simply flushed with terror. She glanced up at him, and smiled, though it was clearly forced.

"Hey," she began, "what's your full name?"

The question was so unexpected it took him a few minutes to collect himself and answer; "Um, Oliver James Wyvorn. Do you have a middle name?"

"Yeah. Rayne."

He nodded, and began to reply, but was interrupted by the plane landing and the hostess coming around to check everyone was fine and to let them know they would just have to wait a tick. Monica seemed about to explode at this announcement, so he quickly jumped in and thanked the hostess.

A 'tick' turned out to be about 10 minutes, after which they were lead slowly off the plane and into the airport. This time Monica didn't bother looking calm; she headed straight for the side exit door and half-ran across the car park toward a car. She forced open the hood and hotwired it, then smashed the window and jumped in. Olly hardly hesitated in joining her, not wanting to be caught by the Police.

Fortunately, the car was old and the only alarm it set off was a thin, whiney drone, hardly loud enough for they themselves to hear. Instead of trying the road, however, she crashed right through the fence in front of them, leading off into a small suburban back road.

"Jesus Christ!"

"Shut up."

He did.

She stared around her at the dilapidated motel car park. The flickering sign read 'Milton motel/hotel' in pink neon script. She sat watching for any sign of anything non-human, while Ailish argued with the clerk about rooms. After a few excruciating minutes she emerged with the key to the motel.

"C'mon, it's this one." She brushed past Summer lightly to the room on her right. Once inside, neither even bothered to look at the gaudy pink and green decorations and walls.

Summer let out a small whimper of frustration. "God, I can feel them, Ail. So close. She's gonna find us."

"Shh Summer. It's ok. Calm down, you should be ready just in case." She walked over to pat her shoulder lightly. Her sister leaned into the touch, trying to match her breath to her steady heartbeat. She pulled away and paced to the bed nearest the far wall, and unsheathed her sword.

Her green eyes reflected in the golden surface, shining beyond the human dimensions. She could see and hear and touch and smell and even taste the millions of other dimensions in which it typically rested across if she wished. It would kill a human to do so, however, and she preferred not to think about the fact that her heart beat a different rhythm to that of her sister's, or the way she could run impossibly swifter, or that fact that she needn't ever have studied for any test.

But she lived like a human anyway. With less of the more disgusting concerns, of course.

She was pulled from her reverie however, by a miniscule movement outside the window on her right, which gave a dismal view of an alley wall. Summer rose from the bed, and swept soundless out of the door, gesturing to her sister to stay put. Thank God she had the sense to comply.

Frieda was nearly running down the long alley stretching behind the street. She carried in her hand a small bomb, just enough to detonate a small building. She would die, she knew; the woman was coming after her, deadly and cold. But she would take the bitch along with her if it was the last thing she did. She settled in the alley between a pub and a vintage clothes store, a mere 5 doors down from the motel.

The bomb was placed in amongst a few bins and the dry fuse lit as Summer rounded the corner. Frieda smiled, turning to face her opposition. The night was silent as they moved toward each other, Summer swift and business-like, Frieda strolling gradually, eyes shut and pointing at the sky. Her red lips moved slowly in a prayer as she stopped in the centre of the alley, baring her throat.

"As I lay me down to sleep," she began, "I pray the Lord my soul to keep."

Summer moved forward, Frieda's prayer the only sound.

"And if I should die before I wake," She raised her knife, blood churning and mind whirling. Something was happening; the other Weapon was moving.

She pulled back to strike, "I pray-" Frieda's last words were cut short.

Summer stood, baffled, her knife poised to hit, clean and still. The vampire's head slowly slid off, to be replaced by that of woman's. Her eyes were fiery and wild, her hair was dishevelled; the rainbow streaks now splattered with blood. As the body slumped to the ground in front of them, she lowered her short-sword in perfect timing with Summer.

"He-" their simultaneous greetings were cut short by a deafening roar and burst of flames. They plumed into the silent night, decimating all in their path.

25


	2. Chapter 2

**Word Count:** 5, 948  
**A.N.** This is set in the Supernatural- verse, though is my own story line which will have very little to do with any characters from the show for a long time. Constructive criticism is very much appreciated, as well as any other comments. I will do my very best to reply to all of you, and solve any problems.  
**Warnings:** very mild spoilers, AU, OCs, mild swearing.

Masterlist:

.

Summer landed sprawling on the ground, her head swimming. The night was impossibly black after the blazing light of the explosion. She felt something warm and slimy slid up her hand, then slip back down. A hoarse yell escaped her lips as she rolled away from it onto her back. Her vision was returning by now, and she could see thousands of twinkling lights, like gems, set into a midnight blue sky. They formed themselves into stars, and what she had assumed to be the noisy city streets far away, formed into the yelling and cursing of a woman. It was strained however, and interspersed with fits of coughing.

The woman went abruptly silent, though she could still hear her heavy breathing. Summer whirled around and jumped to her feet, only to stumble backwards. Before and behind her stretched a beach, pale and glowing in the moonlight. The air was hot, and coupled with her broiling blood and whirling mind it made the whole situation seem beyond surreal.

Nauseous from the sudden change of scenery, she fell to her knees, eyes resting on the prone form of the woman lying in the sand. Her eyes were barely open, but it was like looking into a mirror; same goals, same feelings; same thoughts, for all intents and purposes. She leaned closer, staring into the pale blue eyes. They looked back at her, and Summer was jerked away instantly. She wheeled around; or tried at least. Whoever had hers' grip was like a steel vice, digging into her arms. She could feel bruises starting to form as she struggled; kicking and twisting.  
As soon as she let out a pitiful moan, however, the grip loosened, allowing her to spin around and hit her attacker straight in the nose. He lurched away, bleeding. Summer was, unfortunately for him, an opportunist, and took full advantage of the situation by landing another hard kick to his stomach. It certainly didn't cause him much harm, but he did slow down.

He soon regained his equilibrium, cleaned of blood and injury. They stared at each other, unmoving, save for occasional breathing. He looked honest, or he would've if it weren't for his coat. It hung heavy down to his ankles, leather ghostly white in the moonlight. He had shaggy blonde hair, medium length for a guy. His eyes were a soft, sea green and he looked kind of American, possibly British. She couldn't see the rest of his outfit, due to the shadows cast by his coat and position, but it looked the same white as the coat.

Drawing her weapon, she stepped to the left; in front of the woman. Sword held in front of her, she asked; "Who are you?"

"Simiel," came the reply.

"You're an angel, right?"

"Yes." The next part was complimented with a head-tilt, "How did you guess?"

"You caught me, and held me. There are very few things that can manage that."

He nodded graciously. "You have to come with me."

"Absolutely not." Perhaps to some her answer may have seemed quick, but it could not have come quicker for her. Since she was small she'd been told to fear angels; they were tricky, strong, smart liars, and they would stop at nothing to find her. To use her. To destroy her. They were worse than demons; worse than Gods.

"Come with me."

"I said no."

"Why not?"

"Because. You're an angel. Do I really need to clarify?"

Again he tilted his head. "Please, trust me."

"What?"

"Please."

"Fix her." She gestured toward Monica.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because I'll kill you if you don't." Her voice was terribly honest.

"Fine." Simiel moved slowly toward Monica, and bent to touch her forehead. A few seconds later she straightened, weapon drawn and ready to fight if need be. Her eyes continued to flicker between Simiel and Summer, though lingered noticeably on the latter.

The angel had repositioned himself to the left of Summer, and slightly ahead of her. His knife was drawn, and in the perfect position to fly into combat with Monica. His gaze was enough to paralyse the strongest of demons. It was full of purpose and wrath and age-old battle wounds.

"Leave." He practically growled the word. Summer stepped forward to put a restraining hand on his chest.

"Maybe you should do the same."

"I can't let her go."

"Takes us back to my motel, and leave. Get out of my life, or I'll force you." She tilted her sword for effect, letting the dim light glint off of its' surface.

Simiel raised his hands, and the ground and sky swept away from beneath them.

Olly burst panting from the alley, only to be greeted by spirals of flame licking high into the sky, exactly where he'd last seen Monica. He walked blindly across the street towards the burning buildings. His mouth was agape, and his hands outstretched in a useless attempt at calming the flames. Up and down the street people were running out of the houses and stores. The screams emanating from the now engulfed pub were haunting, and he was sure they could never, not in an eternity, leave his mind for good.

He stood there staring, the only other soul in sight, for about 3 minutes, before he became conscious of the lack of air reaching his lungs. The sky was hazy with grey smoke, and it had polluted the air to near unbreathable standards.

The lack of oxygen had violently wrenched him out of his shock, and he ran as fast as his adrenaline pumped legs would take him, to the edge of the smoke. He knelt; hands in his hair. Sweat was dripping from his nose, partly because of the run and partly from grief. He now had nothing. He'd had no real family to begin with, and now he had no home, no car, no money, no Monica. It felt as if all life and spirit had been drained from him.

"Hello?" the question muted to his ears, and the face behind it was no clearer. "Are you ok?"

His eyes squinted; the face slowly began to regain focus. It took a few seconds to realise who it was. He'd seen her before; in several blurry photos taken in bustling city squares to narrow alleys.

"Ashley?"

"Ailish!" she pulled him to his feet; probably a little more forcefully than necessary.

"I know you." He was half whispering, still dazed. "Where's the other one?"

She didn't answer. As his world slowly became clearer, he was aware of the flames; crystal clear against the black night, and of the dingy motel into which he was being led. They paused outside the door, though for what reason Olly didn't know. He didn't really care either.

He looked over to her. The victory he should have been feeling at finding the mysterious outlaws was outweighed by the loss. He had lost both Monica and the other weapon, but had gained enough fragments of information to make him a target, he was sure.

"Hey," Olly's voice was husky and croaking, "I asked you a question."

She eventually, if reluctantly, acknowledged his presence in full. "Yeah."

"Well?" The word was barely a murmur.

"I don't know where she is. Blasted into pieces, I assume. And burning. The other one too."

"Oh God." Heedless of the surrounding people, he began to shed tears. Not many, but they were hot, and mixed with ash and sweat. "So they're dead? I can't believe they're dead."

"It takes a lot to kill them."

"Oh so being blown to pieces is a regular thing for her then? You can't act like you don't even care! Two people just DIED!"

Her head snapped around, and the fire reflected in her eyes made her seem even angrier.

"She's my sister! You don't think I care! And no, it's not normal for her, but she's been burned and cut up and she always, somehow, comes back to me, so I'm not losing it, but don't for one minute think I'm not worried!" The girl was panting, and her face red.

Olly was frozen. He should have been happy for the news or hopeful at least. But he was cynical, always had been, and in shock. There was nothing going through his mind, or maybe there was but it was going too fast for conscious thought to keep up with. Instead he stood, hunched over; hands out, staring at her face.

He hardly even registered her look of surprise. It quickly morphed into relief, and then wariness. She pushed past him and began to walk toward the car park. He shook himself and turned to follow. Half jogging towards them was Monica, with Summer trailing slowly behind.

The edge of the sidewalk made him stumble in his haste to catch up. Ailish and Summer were already embracing, with Monica standing off to the side, looking slightly awkward. He rushed to meet them, his stomach a tight knot of worry and joy.

Despite the fire being incredibly hot, and the vague sound of sirens in the distance, Olly was abruptly, irrationally relieved. He was panting, cached in sweat and ash. He looked atrocious; like something out of a bad horror movie. In typical circumstances, if he were in the company of three attractive, if not beautiful women, he would've buckled; filthy or fresh. But the circumstances which they were under were anything but typical. A more felicitous word for their predicament would be, say, extraordinary.

Summer's hand dropped from Ailish's shoulder slowly, and her eyes were trained on Monica. The flames outlined every inch of Summer's face, and her hair could've easily been part of blaze. Monica's face was veiled in wavering shadows, dusky and clouded. The irony was not lost on him.

Their expressions, however, were perfectly matched. Joy, relief, worry and enthrallment all jostled for dominance.

"Hi." Relief and fascination were prominent on Summer's face, shining in her green eyes. Years of lying and tricks, however, eliminated all possibility of the wariness and worry leaving as of yet, but it was better than most would've expected.

Monica, albeit sharing the same emotions, was steely. "Hey."

"Do you know me?" The other woman's voice was humming with anticipation. "Cos I know you."

"Yeah. You're Heaven's perfect little soldier, right?" There were traces of bitterness in her voice.

"Most would disagree." A pause. "And that would make you Hell's, am I right? You've been looking for us?"

"Yup. Came half way across the world to find you, by the way."

"I-". They didn't find out what she was about to say, as behind her suddenly appeared Simiel, though Olly was not to know him for a long while, and she was gone.

"What the fuck!" Monica was suddenly livid, and her eyes ceased to reflect the flames, but became the flames. She whirled in a full circle, muttering a string of blasphemous curses that would have shocked Lucifer himself.

"Whaaa...?" Was Olly's eloquent contribution.

"What just happened? Angels?" Ailish didn't receive an answer, not one without extensive swearing, anyhow. Being the sharp tack she was, she kept quiet, not wanting to anger Monica further, who was now steaming quietly. Instead, she whipped out her cell phone and dialled Summer's number. Her face fell at the sharp ring that soon emanated from the glove box of Summer's car.

"Jesus." Ailish muttered under her breath.

The sirens were almost to the fire, and the different rhythms indicated there would be police involved. Due to her "criminal" record, Ailish decided it was best that they all get as far away as possible as fast as possible.

"We should go." She tugged at Olly's shirt sleeve, and gently pushed Monica toward the car. "C'mon."

Olly stumbled into the back seat, emotions still stalled. The passenger door took a bit of a beating from Monica's rough slam, but at least both complied without a fuss. The engine growled, as eager to be gone as Ailish was.

"Hey. Um, sorry, I don't know your names." She looked over at the passenger seat, though no response was received. A cough from the backseat caught her attention, "Well, I'm Oliver, but I prefer Olly, and that's Monica, there." The young man responded, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

"Ok. Hi. Monica," she ventured, "where did come from? Just then?"

The only answer was a shrug.

"Please. This could be really helpful. We have to find Summer. It might be nearby."

"How should I know?" She threw her hands up in frustration, her face taught with weary annoyance.

"Describe it."

"Ugh. There was… a beach, not very big, surrounded by trees. I think there was a road, maybe, and some weird purple trees. Happy?" A slight pause. "Oh, and I think there were buildings somewhere. City lights, far off."

"Ok. Was it hot, or what?"

"Uh, yeah." Her head thudded lightly against the window, eyes searching for hope or death or both in the smoggy lights.

"Hm." It sounded optimistic. There were thousands of places she could've been describing, but there were Jacarandas and city lights at the Sunshine Coast, so she headed roughly north.

Monica's silhouetted face dropped away, and the dusty concrete was swept from beneath her feet, to be replaced by sliding, silver sand and the glittering night sky. There was no nausea this time, as if she'd done this a thousand times. She became aware of a warm presence behind her and touching her, of a firm hand on her shoulder.

"Summer." It was the same voice she'd heard before, light and autocratic.

Her heart hardly missed a beat, and neither did her brain. The fight was laid out before her already, each blow, each quick dodge and lunge. Angels were tricky, fast and strong; built purely to fight. They were the best. But she'd been here before, in theory, knew exactly where to land each blow, which bones to break. She slipped quietly into a neighbouring dimension, close to the angel's. His wings were visible, she knew, and his grace vulnerable.

Her hand whipped up to grab his. She swung around and landed a punch in his stomach, winding him. She then kicked him hard in the stomach, knocking him back.

Sword ready, she went for his wings. Simiel was far from beat, however, and flitted to the side. Her weapon sliced through the air, narrowly missing his throat. She stumbled backwards after being hit hard in the shoulder by the hilt of his sword, and raised her arm to block his next manoeuvre.

He shoved her; hard, and she lashed out at him with her elbow, only to hit air. Simiel disappeared, and she spun 360o. The rustle of wings behind her alerted her to his whereabouts, but before she could turn to face him she was gripped roughly around the waist and thrown forward. Upon hitting the ground Summer somersaulted onto her knees, and snapped up to her feet. The angel was just close enough to touch, and she lashed a foot out at his wings. The blow connected; hard enough to jar him, but not enough to break any bones.

He cried out in surprise and pain, his wing now cradled protectively against his body. The feathers were glowing white in the moonlight, and ruffled where she'd kicked him. Apart from this small blemish, they were spotless. Each feather was perfectly positioned and sparkling clean. He clearly hadn't been away from the paradisiacal fields of Heaven for a long, long time. Simiel stood tall, however, silver sword raised. Face expressionless, he began to murmur. His eyes glowed with Grace and the air was filled with a high pitched whine. It didn't harm Summer, as it would have other humans. She could hear the different pitches, and this one was far from deadly. It was a sort of white noise, comforting, like rain. Her head swam, Simiel's monotone words and the white noise blurred and shifted. The sky spun away from her, and the night was black.

Summer's eyes snapped open, and she was met with Simiel's face, stoic with the slightest hint of hurt. Or possibly frustration. She tensed her fist, and prepared to whack the angel in his stupid face. She pushed her hand upward, and got nowhere. He had pinned down her arms, legs, and torso. Her sword lay some distance away.

"We need to talk." He repeated. Bloody robot.

"Get away from me."

"You'll run away."

"Jesus Christ, where could I run too?"

"My name is Simiel."

"What?"

"I am not Jesus Christ our Saviour, I am Simiel. I'm from the 9th Garrison, in the 6th Generation of angels."

Summer tried to kick up with her knee, but only succeeded in receiving a sharp twist of her wrist.

"Listen to me."

She stared at him resolutely, mouth tightly closed.

"You know what you are." It was more of a statement than a question, and he clearly took Summer's silence as a yes. "And you know what I am. And so you knew this was coming." He tilted his head, a distinctly avian movement. "Why are you running?"

"Why? Because I want to live! Eternal beauty isn't exactly my idea of a shit deal. But that seems to be a cardinal sin these days, right?"

"Our Father sent me to find you alive. You'd be no use to us dead."

"But I'm no use to you if I don't do what I say either!"

"Then cooperate."

"Take me home!"

"And where is that, exactly?"

She was, yet again, unresponsive. She had a house, where she had lived during school terms. Nuevo Cielo, or New Heaven. It was all in the name to most. It was situated right on the coast, and was nestled into the bustling string of humanity that is the Sunshine Coast, Brisbane and Gold Coast area, in between the former two. It was the San Francisco of QLD, with a healthy mixture of LGBT supporters and religions. It wasn't a particularly family friendly city, but it had a population of over 1.2 million and led the country in new ideas and open-minded multi-culturist ideals. There was, however, a significantly unhealthy amount of nightclubs and casinos.

It suited her mother perfectly, a young witch who at the young age of 19 was swept off of her feet by an extremely fine-looking hunter; Desmond Martinez. Summer quickly backtracked before she delved into her familial situation too deeply. In conclusion, the Manor in which she had lived served very well as a comfortable residence, but never sufficed as a home. She had always preferred the long, open roads and bustling city streets, places where anything could happen, where she was whoever she wished.

Simiel's stern expression softened. "I won't hurt you, and I won't force you to do anything you don't want to. Trust me, please." His turquoise eyes tempered. "Whether you like it or not, you were born to kill, and that's all you'll ever be best at. It's a gift."

This last comment stung, harsh and searing. It was far from a gift, but it was the truth.

"Get off." She growled. The angel didn't budge. Stupid. Her blood boiled, hot and refined. Her necklace burned, searing her skin. The petite, golden angel's globe pulsed with an energy that they both could sense, that to Summer meant life and to Simiel screamed death in a piercing primeval howl, like some dying bird.

Luckily he knew when to quit, and hesitantly loosened his vice-like grip on Summer, rising to his feet. She followed, sword once again hidden away from everyone's eyes but hers.

"I apologise." It was easy to see the words had no depth, but were merely a habit, something programmed into him.

"Whatever."

Neither of them said anything for 125 seconds, according to Simiel's biological clock, which, instead of estimating the time by the Sun, could simultaneously show the correct time everywhere in the Universe.

"I won't hurt you. But you're in my charge. The order I was given was to watch you; to ensure nothing happens to you." He broke the silence, after noticing Summer fidgeting and looking down, up, right, left, behind her, anywhere but at him. He knew these were all obvious signs of awkwardness in humans. "Come with me."

Their eyes met, but there was only distrust on Summer's side, and a distinct lack of any general emotion on Simiel's. She wanted to go home, back to Ailish, to find Monica and to continue with her life. "I'll think about it." A compromise should satisfy him. Besides, no way was she going to decide herself to do Heaven's bidding without asking Ailish first. "Now take. Me. Back." Her voice was sharp and terse, with no hint of doubt.

He paused, contemplating, though what she couldn't guess. "Very well." He stepped toward her, and once again the ground beneath her fell away.

To be replaced by damp asphalt. The night air was filled with a grating screech, mechanical and cold.

The city's lights glowed in the distance, wreathing the dark horizon in an artificial halo. They bounced off of the shiny red paint of her car, out of which was exiting Ailish and the girl, Monica. She could see the man, Oliver, stumbling out the other side of the car, but her eyes were focused on Monica.

Ailish hung in the background, silent, whilst she strode resolutely towards Summer. She stopped about a foot from her, face contorted with confusion and disappointment and veneration. Summer was sure those same emotions were written across her face; probably with a little more confusion, however. Her eyes drifted over the other woman, taking her in.

Somehow, she wasn't what had been expected, but then again it seemed as if she never could've looked any different. Her hair was cut extremely short at the back, down to stubble at the top of her neck; and sloped down around her face. A sharp, straight fringe covered her forehead. The light was dim, but the coloured streaks in it stood out boldly against the jet black dye. Her frame was hidden by her loose clothes, but there were indications of beauty. She was tall; as tall as Summer, about 5: 10. A long, black wool coat swept down her frame, reaching below her knees. The lack of light hid her top and pants, but heavy combat boots were visible below the hem. Her most startling feature was, however, her eyes. They were set in a somewhat soft face, oval and pale, her cheeks dusted with a pale pink, and shone a solid, cerulean blue in the moonlight, and were what could be described as "big baby blues". It wasn't necessarily their appearance that drew the eye, though, but the expression in them. It was one of torment, stoic determination and bitterness; the kind of bitterness that stems from the longing for love. It was probably one of the saddest sights she'd ever seen.

"Hi."

Summer started at the word. It seemed deafeningly loud in the reticent night. It was hardly enough either; to sum up their ideas and feelings and lives. Yet she couldn't think of a better greeting.

"Hello." She replied, her voice trembling. The silence stretched out for an almost unbearably uncomfortable amount of time.

"Monica Hunter; the latest of hell's little secrets." Monica held out a hand in greeting, which Summer shook with an air of robotism. "And you would be Heaven's, am I right? I'm afraid I don't know your name yet." She clearly wasn't used to confabulation. The words seemed stilted and the pauses between them didn't fit, while Monica continued to pick at a loose string on her ragged shirt throughout the conversation.

"Summer Jasmine Martinez, at your service. You guessed right. Angels are all out for my head though." She flashed a smile at an attempt to soften to mood. It also seemed to open up Monica; not much, but every bit counted.

The reprieve was, however, brief. Monica's face quickly contorted into a frown.

"Angels. That was where you were. Angels took you. What happened?"

It was here Ailish jumped in with a strained "Are you okay?", but was, as usual, not granted a response.

"Yeah. One called Simieth, I think, no, no, Simiel. That was it. He said he was sent to protect me, and that I had to live up to my destiny or some crap like that." She spat the word 'destiny' out bitterly. "In other words, they want me to do what I'm told and take care of their dirty work for them."

"Well what did you say?" Her adopted sister's words were half gasps.

"I said I'd think about it." Summer responded quietly.

"But it's a no, right? You can't just _give in _to them!" Monica was now a little more than agitated, and the last thing any of them wanted was a commotion; commotions tended to be loud, and loud brought trouble, in her experience.

"I think we should get out of here. Anyone could be listening." She glanced around her at the darkness for effect. She didn't ask if anyone else was coming, or look to see. Ailish would go with her anywhere, and Oliver was already half-in the car. Monica was sure to come, if only on principle. People tended to go where there were other people.

She slid into the driver's seat; waiting for the others to catch up. Ailish gave up her usual place in the passenger seat to Monica. Or rather Monica relieved Ailish of this tradition.

In truth she had no idea who would be listening. Possibly Simiel, but it was unlikely- he surely had more important things to attend to. Perhaps it was the hot darkness of the landscape that set her teeth on edge. It felt as if every inch of air above her weighed thousands of tons each, and Summer was acutely aware of the pressure.

"So," started Monica.

"So," Summer echoed.

The silence stretched on; as flat and rich as the road ahead of them.

Oliver James Wyvorn, aka Olly, waited alone on the damp motel veranda. The humid atmosphere of Nuevo Cielo had caused him to strip down to jeans and his thin 'The Angels Have the Phone box' t-shirt. Despite this he was still coated with a meagre sheen of sweat, his dirty blonde hair lank and greasy. He wished he was one of those exceptionally lucky individuals- the ones who could still look amazing unshaven, sweaty and smeared with oil. Those people had tans and wind-swept locks, chiselled jaw lines and muscles that would've made Michelangelo weep. Oliver had none of these features, not even close. He was gangly and his skin was a constant sickening shade of pinkish grey, or if he'd been in the sun all day, red. His eyes were a matching, unremarkable shade of grey, and were set far apart on either side of his long, somewhat birdlike nose. Oliver's lips were, of course, pencil-thin and surrounded by a smattering of acne that simply refused to fade.

Overall, Oliver James Wyvorn was pretty dull.

The wan neon lighting did not help to improve his visage. They'd arrived in South Nuevo Cielo about half an hour ago and booked into the 'Paradiso' motel, though it appeared to Olly as if his and the manager's definition of paradise conflicted. The sign was an obnoxious neon pink, and stood vertical next to an equally abhorrent yellow and green palm tree. The entire, pot-holed car park was almost empty with the only exceptions being Summer's Thunderbird, a ute and a Lindsay Bros. truck. As soon as Summer had checked in she'd disappeared with Monica into her and Ailish's room, and hadn't emerged since. The latter was showering in Olly's room, and he felt weirdly claustrophobic in Monica's room, so he had decided to wait outside.

He walked over to the curb of the parking lot and sat down; dismissing the obvious decay. He looked to the sky.

But it wasn't just looking to the sky anymore. Prior to his meeting with Monica, he may have admired the stars, if the night was clear enough. Perhaps thought about whether tomorrow would be a good day to go for a walk; whether it would rain, or snow.

Now he gazed in awe. Awe of his brevity. Awe of his inessentiality. He stared in wonder at the sheer beauty of it all; the size. The miracle of life itself. How he was so simply sparked to life and how easily he could be stomped back into the Earth from whence he came. But most of all, yes, most of all, he gazed upon Heaven in all its untouchable and unseeable glory. He dreamed of empyrean celestials resting upon Elysian Fields made of the purest gold and of the very definition of perfection!

And yet, he wasn't at peace. He wasn't at peace because of the way Ailish, Monica and Summer talked about angels. All three appeared to hold mixed feelings about Heaven. There was fear, disdain, betrayal and yearning in their eyes whenever the word was brought up. It made him uneasy to think that even the embodiment of Heaven itself loathed its creators.

He was jerked out of his silent reverie by a door swinging shut behind him. Olly whirled around, to see Ailish standing beside him, her short, sandy hair still half wet. He thought she looked nicer with her hair slightly curled, instead of the sharp, straight look she'd previously bore.

"So, are you just gonna just sit out here by yourself or do you wanna come inside? There's cookies." Ailish said.

He smiled half-heartedly. "Yeah, sure." She held out her hand to help him up, and, awkwardly, he took it, self-conscious of the sweat on his palm. Ailish, however, didn't appear notice, but quietly wiped her own hand as Olly turned around.

She waited at the door; after all, this was his room. "Can I come in, too?" she asked politely.

"Hm? Oh, yeah, of course."

As she closed the door behind her, she looked over to poor Oliver. She felt bad for him, she really did. The past few days had been stressful for her, and she was used to the supernatural ruling her life, deciding her every move. But Olly had been launched, or rather shoved, into this life not four days ago, with no prior knowledge of what lay waiting, blood-thirsty in the shadows. He seemed to be coping rather well; better than she knew she would have been in his place.

"How are you holding up?" Ailish queried, feigned concern touching her eyes and lips.

He laughed a bitter laugh, "How do you think? I mean, demons and, and vampires, and _angels_? _God_?"

"Heh, don't quite know about that last one, and but on the whole, yeah." She responded.

In seeming desperation, he put his head in his hands and sucked in a long, thin breath through his teeth. Ailish had been expecting the full waterworks, complete with a mental breakdown, any second. Instead of this, however, he surprised even himself by raising his eyes to look towards Ailish.

"Ok," was the word that escaped his pale lips. "What's the story?"

Ailish was, quite understandably, rather taken aback.

"Pardon?"

Oliver twitched his eyebrows up in expectant inquest. "What's the story? What's going on? How do I…" he seemed to be searching for the appropriate phrase, "do this? Whatever it is you guys do?"

Oliver's new acquaintance's face appeared to turn to stone, and her voice when she spoke was a strict monotone.

"You don't."

"What?" Olly rose from his place on the bed in indignation. "What do you mean I don't?" He asked, his emphasis on the last word.

"Go home. Back to whatever you were doing before. It's better, trust me."

"No." The word was barely more than a whisper. "No." Louder this time. "I can't. How can you expect me to do that? I have nothing there, you understand? Nothing!"

Ailish was staring at Oliver with a look of muted surprise on her face.

"I have no family. No pets. No home. No friends. No car, now! I don't even have a proper job! I'm a part-time accountant! Ok? Do you get that? My life, or what little pathetic scraps there are left of it are crap!" Here he paused, and his words became softer, all angry adrenaline dissipated. "There is _nothing_ for me there. So don't you dare tell me to go back. Please."

The room was quiet. Not even the crickets dared hum. She walked slowly over to the mouldy counter at the far end of the room; her footsteps deafening in the suddenly weighted silence.

It seemed to go on…

and on…

and on...

"What happened to them?"

The words were startlingly loud in the stillness.

"Who?" He replied, his voice shaking.

She turned; her pale, blue-grey eyes hinting at almost-feigned sympathy. "Your family." Ailish replied solemnly. At this Oliver sucked in a startled breath.

His eyes closed. "Never mind. It's nothing. Least of our problems." When Olly opened his eyes, they were shining. _Stop, _he thought, _don't think about it. Don't go there. Stupid. It's stupid. It's nothing. Never mind it now, Oliver. Stop. _

When he next spoke however, all hints of anger and sadness were gone from his voice.

"Geez, they've sure been in there a while now, hey?" He spoke.

Ailish mentally shook herself, and responded, "Yeah. Well."

Again the room fell into a tense silence. And so it remained; Oliver poised awkwardly on the edge of his bed, Ailish leaning by the cracked frame of the door.

Summer had been in Room 12 of the Paradiso Motel she had no idea how long. Possibly minutes. Probably hours. The time had proved one thing, however; opposites attract. The whole time she and Monica had done nothing but talk, about everything. What they were both willing to share of their life story, their favourite movies, what music they listened to, stories of valour and laugh out loud tales from the road. They talked about everything.

The one thing neither of them seemed willing to address however was their next move. It seemed as though all either of them wanted was to bask in the glory of a realised goal.

"So where are you off to next?" asked Summer.

Monica told her she didn't know. In truth, neither knew. Life for the past 3 years had been focused solely on this day. And now, all that remained was, well, that's just the thing. They did not know.

Summer looked up as Monica began to speak once more. "Maybe, I could… I don't know. Are you a hunter?"

Summer replied with, "Sometimes. I get paid to a job, and I do it. Sometimes I have to hunt though, yes."

"Right." Monica knew the type. "Funny thing. I did a bit of hunting in between looking for…" Here she trailed off, her blue eyes drifting up toward Summer. "Got a spare seat?"

"I think that could be arranged." Miss Summer Martinez's lips curved into a perfect, ivory smile.

TO BE CONTINUED…


End file.
